


Deleted Scene

by IneffableAlien



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkwardness, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Biting, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Deleted Scene: Aziraphale's Bookshop 1800 (Good Omens), Hand Jobs, Humorous Ending, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Crowley (Good Omens), Sweet Crowley (Good Omens), Top Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 12:41:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21208712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffableAlien/pseuds/IneffableAlien
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley christen the new bookshop.  What plot?Or, a deleted scene from a deleted scene.





	Deleted Scene

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt was for 600+ words, where a possessive Crowley leaves marks on Aziraphale's neck, and Aziraphale forgets to remove them before other angels see.

It sounds more than a little ironic, for a demon to “christen” anything.

But that’s what this is, Aziraphale thinks—in the gasping moments where he can form thoughts at all. It’s a dedication ceremony. And with each scraping thud against the empty shelves, Crowley transforms the space into something profanely holy in Aziraphale’s mind. It is all Aziraphale can do to not blaspheme right out loud as he twists and grips hair as red as Kashmiri saffron, as though his life depends on it.

Aziraphale wants this act to be how he does worship. He wants to miracle long articles of prose, describing venomous honey eyes, into the Song of Solomon, making it appear that the words were always there. Crowley hoists Aziraphale up and swings him into a sitting position on the desk, and Aziraphale responds greedily by wrapping his satin thighs even tighter around the jutting angles of Crowley’s waist.

It’s 1800, and it is only right and good that Crowley should take Aziraphale for the first time in his new bookshop.

Crowley’s breath is hot and ragged on Aziraphale’s ear as he arches into him, digging his pointy nails into the yielding wooden lip of the desk for balance as he pounds relentlessly. “How long?” he demands to know with a throaty growl, and Aziraphale has never heard Crowley—playful, clever, gentle Crowley—sound anything like this before, but now he thinks he would gladly discorporate for that demonic, dominating voice. “Ah, fuck … the Bastille? The Globe? Sooner?”

The motion forces the desk legs to shriek across the floor, and Aziraphale can only moan until he rediscovers words. “The Bastille—_yes,_ the Globe—_yes,_ for so long, darling …”

Crowley fists the hair at the nape of Aziraphale’s neck. He tugs it back, not to hurt, but to expose the throat, and glittering candlelight bounces off of Crowley’s subtly bared white fangs. “Tell me, _ssssssssay_ it, I want … ohh … _how long could I have had you?”_ His mouth is working along the angel’s jaw now, stopping to nip just below his chin. Crowley lets go of the desk with his other hand and snakes it between them, finding Aziraphale and stroking him roughly. To Crowley he smells of things aquatic, grassy, and clean.

Aziraphale whines. Just as their wings exist and do not exist between different dimensional planes, so too can Aziraphale feel a tongue that is both forked and not forked, one second narrow and flickering, the next broader and lapping. The effect is dizzying. Aziraphale is vaguely aware that Crowley has started biting him all over, and oh, shouldn’t that hurt, only it doesn’t, not at all, it feels divine, this is ecstasy …

“Angel—ahh—angel, use your words, how—_long?”_

Aziraphale is thrusting into Crowley’s tight palm now, and he sighs. “Ohh, at least Rome. Maybe … always, Crowley … but … I couldn’t have … stopped you … _in Rome …”_

The answer must please him, for Crowley sinks his teeth into Aziraphale’s creamy white shoulder and moans richly, the sound muffled by the flesh. And it is that final brutal bite that sends Aziraphale flying over the edge, makes him jerk and spill into Crowley’s fingers. Crowley’s entire body shudders against Aziraphale’s curves, and quick as a shot he throws his arms around Aziraphale and crashes their cheeks together. _“I love you, I love you, I have always loved you,”_ Crowley pants softly, holding on fast.

Aziraphale can only do much the same, scramble to seal up even the slightest distance between them, and rock gently with the demon in his arms. He buries his face in Crowley’s neck and breathes in the aroma there of lamp oil and cool metal. And now that Crowley has finished, Crowley trembles with emotion, and he touches Aziraphale’s face like he’s praying, _stay, stay, don’t ever go, please don’t let this be just the one time,_ and Aziraphale dreamily wonders, how you can know someone for 5,800 years and still meet new sides of him—the Crowley who snarled and clawed and fucked Aziraphale out of his mind mere minutes before, the one now so loving and raw and even a little bit scared that it’s like he pinned his own bleeding heart open to a cork board.

After a rest, Crowley kisses the side of Aziraphale’s mouth hard and leans back. He miracles himself clean and dressed, then grins. “You know what, angel?” He brushes the hair back from Aziraphale’s forehead. “I’m gonna run down to the shops, grab you some chocolate.”

Aziraphale laughs, light and tinkling. “My dear, after all that, is that _really_ your first thought?”

“Eh-h-h, I want to celebrate, I want to do something for you, I need to _move_—stay there! I’ll be back!” Crowley is so happy that he nearly glows like an angel as he saunters out the door.

“Of course I’m staying, it’s my shop!” Aziraphale calls behind him, chuckling and shaking his head. And just like that, Aziraphale is dressed, and the desk is back where it belongs. He starts taking books off the floor and putting them on shelves, wiggling contentedly.

The bell dings above the door, and Aziraphale turns, all smiles. “Did you forget—?” His face falls.

_Gabriel and Sandalphon._

Gabriel fails to notice Aziraphale’s disappointment. “Aziraphale!” he says joyously, clapping his hands together. “Angel of the Eastern Gate! We are here with good news!”

A beat, and something changes. All three stand together in awkward silence.

“Uh, Aziraphale,” Gabriel says, as he gestures to his collar.

_“What the fuck are those marks all over your neck?!”_

**Author's Note:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


End file.
